


Want

by courageousfuck



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9649733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageousfuck/pseuds/courageousfuck
Summary: Simon needs to go to bed and Baz is so Done™ but also so Weak™.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Snowbaz kind-of-domestic-I-guess drabble that quite literally nobody asked for, but. Yeah. Take it. Please?

“Simon, love. Come to bed.” No answer. I let out a sigh great enough to rival my Aunt Fiona’s. “Come on, it’s getting a bit late if you want to get to your lecture tomorrow.”

Finally he rouses himself from his work to throw a look at me from over his shoulder. He’s wearing my jumper today, I note, relishing in the fact that we two are in a habit of swapping clothes nowadays. Not that I particularly want to wear his rank old tracksuit anyway – I don’t blame him for wanting to wear some decent clothes for once, however much that may lead to him stealing mine – but I must admit there is a more possessive side of me that does rather enjoy seeing Simon in my things every once in a while. 

“A’right,” his sleepy voice floats through my distracted thoughts, abruptly ending my little fantasy of pulling that jumper right off him. “Alright, give me a sec.”

He quickly saves his essay before closing the Word document; standing up and stretching himself out. I swear I can practically see those back muscles rippling even under all that cashmere – Ralph Lauren, cable-knit, thank you _very_ much – and I also swear he does it deliberately (look hopelessly attractive in everything he does, I mean), just to rile me up. A sharp pop sounds from his direction, and I glance up at him, stunned. He hesitates in shock for a fraction of a second before giggling weakly.

“Wh- what was that?” I ask, faintly.

“Did you hear that?! My shoulder just clicked _so_ loud then!” He laughs it out, like an idiot. 

“Well,” I’m a little thrown for words, “is it okay? It doesn’t hurt, right?” 

“Nah, course not.”

“Oh,” I say, slightly relieved. 

“Anyway, let’s go to bed. I – I’m ti-r-ed now,” he stutters through a yawn.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you to do for the past hour now! Honestly, if you payed attention to me more often, then both of our lives would be made a lot simpler Si –” The bastard cuts me off with a startling kiss that leaves me utterly confused as to where I am and why I was even speaking in the first place. Which was probably his plan all along. The tosser.

I glare at him through my blush. “You wanker, Snow.”

“Wanker?” He crinkles up his freckled nose in amusement as he grins up at me. (Always, always up at me.) (He never grew those three inches the way he always threatened he would.) (He’s still bitter.) “Isn’t that your job, Baz?”

I shove him, hard, and he trips backwards onto his bed, sprawled appetisingly and grinning wider than ever. He raises a brow at the authoritative move. “Kinky.”

I short-circuit ever so mildly, but somehow push away the many (many, _many_ ) perverse thoughts running through my mind in favour of scowling down at him.  
He just smirks, cocking that brow again. (A habit he picked up from me, by the way. I once caught him practicing in the mirror, one finger forcing the other brow down in frustration as he raised them both.) 

Some remnant of virtue inside me dies, just a little bit, at the sight of that – _expression._ If you could even call it that. I prefer to see it more as personified sex.  
“Ba-aaz,” he sing-songs wickedly. Cheeky little twat. “Come to _bed.”_

“I – you – _no!_ No, not like _that!”_

“You said it first, not me!” 

I’m about as flushed as I can physically be at this point. “You’re twisting my words, Simon.”

He scowls moodily up at me, looking far too much like a toddler about to have a tantrum all of a sudden. “Baz. I want.”

I roll my eyes heavenward. “Simon. You can’t possibly. _You_ have to wake up at six forty-five tomorrow and I’m not going to take the blame for your sorry state.”

“Then don’t take the blame for it,” he shrugs non-committedly. “C’ _mon,_ don’t be peak!”

“What the fuck is ‘peak’,” I deadpan. 

“Wha- ! Baz! Honestly! How do you not know?! It just means your being negative. Being rude. Being – not nice? I dunno – it’s just a thing. That you’re currently being.”

I arch a well-trained brow at him. “Why? Because I won’t wank you off?” 

“Um. Exactly. You’re – uh. Being… attractive? As usual, and I can’t help it if that means I –”

Every last piece of my pathetic resolve leaves my body as I see him getting all red and flustered and _just being Simon._ Because I am entirely too weak for this complete moron.

So. Really, I feel perfectly entitled to end his suffering with a hard kiss. And it _is_ a hard kiss, one that he gasps into before clinging to me, tight. Before smiling into it because he _knew_ he’d get his way, he _always_ gets his way, and I’m vaguely thinking that I need to stop spoiling him so much when he returns the kiss by tenfold, putting a real force behind it that would have me almost alarmed if I wasn’t so desperate for more. I do let out an embarrassing squeak, though, which he uses to smirk his way deeper into my mouth.

Curling a leg around mine, he flips me over, switching our positions. He likes being on top, most of the time. He likes to crawl above me, on all fours, and make me reach for him. He likes to feel wanted, and in control. 

And I let him – oh, _Crowley,_ I _let_ him. I can’t actually think of a time that I would ever even _entertain_ the idea of turning down the glorious sight of Simon’s bronze curls, falling forward as he looks down at me; those blue, blue eyes drinking in my body with a fervour not dissimilar to the way he eyes up a plate of sour cherry scones. (I am fully aware of the fact that I am probably being cheated on with scones.)(A fucking _food._ )

Anyway.

I let him do what he wants because I’m not (I’m never) exactly complaining and also because _I_ don’t have places to be tomorrow morning, unlike him.

I always give him what he wants, regardless – it is my belief that he probably does deserve to be at least a little spoilt after the shit I put him through at Watford. Although that does also mean it’s entirely my fault that he’s turning out to be a right spoilt brat. (I still really can’t possibly say no to him, ever, though.) 

Essentially, whatever Simon wants from me, Simon gets – I’ll give to him freely, again and again and again.

(And I do get to take off that jumper.)


End file.
